No! there was no sign of her.  She was as invisible as the moon at mid-day.  And there were the church-bells beginning to call her:  ’Alice, Alice, put on your things!’

  ’Alice, Alice, put on your things! 
  The birds are calling, the church bell rings;
  The sun is shining, and I am here,
  Waiting—­and waiting—­for you, my dear.

  Alice, Alice, doff your gown of night,
  Draw on your bodice as lilies white,
  Draw on your petticoats, clasp your stays,—­
  Oh!  Alice, Alice, those milky ways!

  Alice, Alice, how long you are! 
  The hour is late and the church is far;
  Slowly, more slowly, the church bell rings—­
  Alice, Alice, put on your things!’

Really it was not in Narcissus’ plans to wait at the school till Alice appeared.  The Misses Curlpaper were terrible unknown quantities to him.  For a girl to have a boy hanging about the premises was a capital crime, he knew.  Boys are to girls’ schools what Anarchists are to public buildings.  They come under the Explosives Acts.  It was not, indeed, within the range of his hope that he might be able to speak to Alice.  A look, a long, immortal, all-expressive look, was all he had travelled fifteen miles to give and win.  For that he would have travelled fifteen hundred.

His idea was to sit right in front of the nave, where Alice could not miss seeing him—­where others could see him too in his pretty close-fitting suit of Lincoln green.  So down through the lanes he went, among the pear and apple orchards, from out whose blossom the clanging tower of the old church jutted sheer, like some Bass Rock amid rosy clustering billows.  Their love had been closely associated from its beginning with the sacred things of the church, so regular had been their attendance, not only on Sundays, but at week-night services.  To Alice and Narcissus there were two Sabbaths in the week, Sunday and Wednesday.  I suppose they were far from being the only young people interested in their particular form of church-work.  Leander met Hero, it will be remembered, on the way to church, and the Reader may recall Marlowe’s beautiful description of her dress upon that fatal morning: 

  ’The outside of her garments were of lawn,
  The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn;
  Her wide sleeves green, and bordered with a grove,
  Where Venus in her naked glory strove
  To please the careless and disdainful eyes
  Of proud Adonis, that before her lies;
  Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain,
  Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain....’